


Blue Tinted Emotions

by Exorciststuck



Series: Johndaveweek 2016 [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Confession, JohnDave Week, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 22:59:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7408591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exorciststuck/pseuds/Exorciststuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seattle was eerie and surreal during a power outage, like it was three am in the middle of the day and the entire world was plunged into uncomfortable stillness, a feeling of an oncoming storm that never hit.</p>
<p>It was the tipping point for your relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Tinted Emotions

Five months, two weeks, six days, and thirteen hours you'd been in Seattle. Five months, two weeks, five days, and at least nine hours you'd been out of power, part of a large portion of the city and surrounding counties that had been plunged into darkness after a massive wind and thunder storm. It was eerie, watching the rain pour outside and the thunder and lightning strike, the entire city plunged into darkness. Mostly.

When you woke up shivering, you panicked. Had you missed your alarm? Were you plunged into a new ice age while you were asleep? Looking around to see your room completely enveloped in darkness, not a single light from your many electronics on. It was... Unnerving. Surreal. Confusing. For a minute, you genuinely thought you were in a dream, making an attempt to pinch yourself awake that resulted in only a sore arm and the harsh reality that the power was out.

Unable to sleep with the knowledge that something was off, you'd stepped out of bed and pulled on your fuzzy Garfield slippers, making the effort to trudge out of your room to sate your curiosity about this whole outage issue. Weirdly enough, John was there with a bag of masking tape in his hand, taping the fridge shut, and a bag of Doritos open on the counter. You raised an eyebrow in silent question, walking right over to grab a handful and stuff your face. Man, you didn't know what made Doritos so fucking good, but you were glad. 

When you're done chewing he's still working on making sure that fridge ain't gonna pop opee, and you sit on the counter, watching him. “Any reason you're taping the fridge shut like it's set to ship to Georgia and end up sitting as the main attraction in some pathetic looking storage unit auction?”

John blinked, tongue stuck out in concentration, (fucking adorable- fucking lame, average Egbert mannerism,) and then he laughed. “Oh! It's 'cause whenever I go into the kitchen I have this weird urge to open the fridge, right? Even if I'm not hungry! But if I do that, the stuff inside will thaw faster, so I'm taping the fridge shut. You know, a tightly packed freezer can stay safely frozen for forty eight hours.”

It was a weird fact and a weird way to keep them out, but you guess if it helps John out you're a fan. Plus, you've got hot pockets in there you still want to eat when the power comes back on, so you ain't gonna stop a good thing.

The curtains are open, probably to let in whatever light John can manage, and when you look outside sun is struggling to make it through the dark grey clouds, giving a stormy illusion to the sky that has you lighting up and going for your camera. It's not everyday you get to take interesting atmospheric shots, and when you step out on the deck you're practically vibrating with the excitement of making something interesting. By the time you're down on the ground and aiming at the sky, John is behind you with a cup of water, leaning on the door. “You know,” he mutters, prompting you to roll over and aim at the wet city below, still dark, the street empty thanks to the early time you'd awoken. He continues, sipping his drink. “Usually, there are some places open we can get a hot meal, aaaand the car has a phone charger, aaaaand we can take some cool photos of temporarily abandoned McDonald's places, if you want.”

Well fuck. It's a damn good idea, and sounds more inventive than balcony shots, so you pack your camera right back up and salute him, going to change into something a little more suitable for trudging through the city. 

You come back out in jeans and a t-shirt, and John's hoodie draped on your slim figure, warm and soft and _definitely_ not pulled out from beneath your pillow where you'd been cuddling it. John smiles when he sees you wearing it though, so who gives a shit where you found it. Fucker liked sharing, for some godawful reason. (You wish it was because he had a thing for you, but god knows you've been holding onto that flame for over six fucking years to no avail. Rooming has only made it worse, you two are ideal roommates.)

“I'll drive so you can take your dorky photos! And hey, we'll get you something tasty to eat. Got your phone and wallet and stuff?” 

“Hell yeah I've got everything, eat a dick, go fuck yourself, photos are fucking sick, lets go.” You churn out basic ass insults while you tug your sneakers on, and you go to turn the lights off only to remember the house was in darkness. Right. 

As you drove through the cities, the quiet was strange. There was stop and go traffic on some streets, where the power was out on the lights and everything was limited to a four way cross. There was power on others, oddly enough, and entire stretches of pavement where nobody but you and John existed. You passed a McDonalds that was closed, as promised, and John stopped the car in the parking lot so you could snap photos inside the windows and around the turned off drive thru sign and all over, pretending it was truly abandoned until you were satisfied and the hunt for power continued.

John drove you right out of Seattle, going up through weaving backstreets to avoid the busy feeling of the I-5 and keep the atmosphere of abandonment alive, until you finally reached a burst of city that had light. You ended up at some shitty little suburb mall he'd been to once as a kid, grabbing everything to head in.

It was nice inside, but immediately you scrunched your nose up. “Feels like we got stuck in a tanning salon in the eighties. Smells like grandma at Value Village.”

“Wow, jeez. Pretentious much Dave?” He had his nose scrunched up as well though, and you ignored him to photograph some tiles older than you. Fucking sick. 

As nice as this weird ass little mall was, aesthetically, there was no fucking food, and the two of you left in a dejected huff to return to driving. It seemed to be the only place that was open, aside from a few gas stations running on what you both decided were backup generators, and the whole unnerving darkness of everything was starting to make you more anxious than fascinated. Who knew how long the power was going to be out. Would you two find a place to eat? And would the rain, which alternated between gentle drizzles and thunderous downpours ever let up? It wasn't normally this wet- you could say that with confidence after almost half a year living with John.

John, who must've sensed your discomfort, because a hand gripped your own by the gear shift, and at a street of stop and go traffic he'd leaned over to give you a side hug, rubbing your arm affectionately. “Don't worry Dave! We've had power outages like this before. Not in a long time, but don't worry!”

Well fuck if that didn't make your shrivelled little heart beat just a bit faster, John's arms were firm and warm and you wanted nothing more than to cuddle up beside him and pretend it wasn't buttfucking cold like November outside. 

He was turning, suddenly, and you jerked, grabbing his shoulder for balance. “What the fuck Egbert?!”

“Ikea Dave! Food!” Well damn. You were about to eat like kings. 

It was starting to get dark outside, especially with the continued cloud coverage, and the comfort of a heated store was pretty nice. You hadn't even realised how humid it was outside either, and the dry air was a relief on your lungs as you walked, taking photos of the warm lighting the store provided.

“Dude,” John snickered, grabbing your hand, “stop taking photos, we'll get kicked out.” Fucker was holding your hand so you couldn't misbehave. Dickbag. (It worked like a charm.)

“Anyway, we should pick up some candles and a lighter while we're here.”

“Ikea sells lighters?”

“Barbeque lighters, jeez Dave.”

“Jeez yourself, jackass.”

“Dave, there are _children_ here!” He gasped, and you sighed, leaning onto him.

“Pretty sure there ain't a parent in this world that's so damn concerned with their kids hearing a pg-13 swear that ain't also got a serious problem with two dudes gettin' real affectionate in Ikea. They're gonna make like, some fucking rating system, 'what's the gayest corporation in the world?' and it'll be fucking Ikea, of course it will, Ikea has all sorts of bullshit that's gay.”

“Like what?”

“Like two dudes holding hands and buying candles together, you dense asswipe. You're so hardheaded you're gonna scrape someone's asshole clean off one day.”

John rolls his eyes, and then sticks a candle up to your nose. “Vanilla or strawberry?”

“Both, what the shit. Make an ice cream sundae.”

“Good point!” 

By the time the two of you finally meandered your sorry asses out of the store, he had two bags heavy with candles and you had boxes of food, enough hot dogs and cinnamon buns to feed an army stacked on your outstretched arms, and a weird pack of lingonberry juice John had insisted on the fucking lingonberry on top of your shitty food adventures. 

With John tired of driving and the smell of food lingering in the air, the two of you got home pretty damn quick, shuffling your way up the staircase and into the chilly air of your unheated, still dark apartment. You frowned, and John sighed, setting up the candles across the apartment until the room was cast in a warm orange glow. 

It occurs to you only now that this could spell disaster for your poor, desperate heart. A candlelit dinner in the romantic quiet of your dark apartment, with both of you chilly and craving physical touch. You turn away from him with warmth rising to your cheeks, the hint of a smile growing on your face despite your best attempts to feel concerned about how badly this could go. You haven't had an excuse to cuddle in a while, and you're aching to curl up in his arms. 

He sits down on the couch casually, and before you can even approach the subject he drapes a blanket over you both, pulling you closer- your heart stopping for one solid moment before you ease into his touch and close your eyes, relishing in the warmth. 

“Wanna share a hot dog?”

“That's disgusting,” you parrot back, but you want nothing more and when he grabs one you bite the end closest with a wiggle of your eyebrows and a look that dares him to say anything as you play Lady and the Tramp with a mushed up amalgamate of meat wrapped in bread. He doesn't say anything, even when you eat right to the end, playing the pocky game with processed meats, his lips hovering so close to your own that anticipation buzzes in your gut. You steal the last bite and pull away laughing, watching the way his face goes from wide eyed something to surprised amusement. “Dave! You dick.”

“Shut up, we have eleven more.”

The two of you, hungry as all fuck from your road trip through the inner city workings of Seattle and nearby suburbs, manage to down ten hot dogs and four cinnamon buns between you before you're sated, leaving the rest as midnight snacks or cold breakfast treats. Unless the power pops back on while you sleep, which would be a fucking Christmas miracle for everyone involved.

It's not really too much of a surprise to you then, learning that without the internet and the tv and all other forms of electricity you've grown used to the whole food coma thing seems a lot stronger. your eyelids droop without your permission, entire body playing noodle on top of John. “Mmn- fuckin', pull the couch bed out.”

John protests with a light slap, “mmnnnnno, youuuu.”

“You're stronger, you do it, I'll get more blankets,” you yawn, and slide off of him before he can argue, going to get all the soft blankets off your own bed, and all the pillows off his. It seems he managed to get his act together, and when you come back he's got the couch pulled out, sitting up. He helps you set the blankets and pillows down in a comfortable way, a silent agreement between the two of you that staying in the warm, candlelit room together is more effective than holing yourselves up alone for the night. 

And you thought it was bad before, when you were eating and cuddling. 

There's nothing quite like having a sleepy John with his arms around you, his glasses on the coffee table and his face younger for it, all the little scraggly black hairs casting faint shadows on his face that age him, giving you an approximation of how attractive he'll look at fifty. Chances are high you'd still fuck him if he was a silver fox, as long as he was still John underneath. Stupid fucker caught your sap button, made you a giant loser for him. 

He's not asleep, but he's either trying to get there or faking it so you can play artist with him, admiring all the fine lines that make up him, the ones that make him so strikingly handsome to you. It makes your fingers itch to caress him, your lips tingle with the urge to press against his soft cheeks and full lips and smooth, flat eyelids. “John,” the words fall out of your mouth before you can stuff them back in and prevent a sleepy, vulnerable conversation. He shifts, blinking one eye open that looks black in the candlelight, the fire sucking all cool tones out of the room.

The easy thing would be to tell him to move his arm, that it's too heavy and he's too much of a fucking beefcake to sleep on top of you like he is, half covering you with his body. In reality, you appreciate the grounding weight of him, and you can't find anything to complain about that isn't a lie, stumbling over your words as you attempt to find something to give to him.

“I love you,” is what comes out, and you can't honestly say if your mind gave up on holding that piece of information for so long, or if it was the only thing left after all the truths and half lies were dissected.

You expect him to shrink away or ask for clarification, especially when you react so visibly to the words, cheeks pinking and lips pursing as you turn away, embarrassed of your own sudden and unexpected outburst.

Instead, he's laughing at you, little sleepy giggles that make you feel hurt and confused all at once, until he rolls to the side and pulls you close enough that your noses bump. “I know!”

“...You know?” It feels like the colour drains from your face as blood rushes back up to it, a startling mix of warm embarrassment and cold, chilling fear. Until John kisses your forehead, beaming at you like you're the sun and he's been trapped in darkness for ten shitty years. 

“It's not exactly hard to tell dude. You send me sappy heart texts, and buy me food, and let me spoon you, and steal my clothes. And you're always making these stupid dorky goo-goo eyes at me! Buuut, I kind of encouraged it, 'cause I really like you, and I was just waiting for you to get the courage to stop being a big baby and tell me!”

“What the fuck John?” You wish you could manage to be actually angry, but instead you nuzzle into his chest and take deep breaths, the reality of the situation kicking in. Your stupid gay crush that turned into stupid gay love has feelings for you too, and he's a douchebag and you love him so fucking much, that stupid dick. 

“Hehe, sorry!” He doesn't sound sorry, pulling you up for a soft, lingering kiss. You're beside yourself with the fact that after so goddamn long it's him who kisses you first, flips the goddamn table on you like it's got a lazy susan in the middle and he's just too fucking extreme to spin it like a normal guy, he's gotta change everything all topsy turvy, there's rice everywhere now but he's kissing you and it's fine, it's alright, you settle your hands in his hair and tug him closer until there's no space between the two of you and his breath mingles with yours. 

For some godawful reason, John Egbert has the lungs of a swimmer, and he keeps you liplocked until you're gasping for air. Now you're lightheaded for two reasons, a dopey smile on your face you don't bother wiping off- especially not when he pecks it again.

The power goes on at three am that night- you calculate that from the time the reset clocks are on- and John heats up the rest of the hot dogs, the two of you eating them from each end until you can meet in a messy, meat flavoured kiss at the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's day three of [Johndave week!](http://johndaveweek.tumblr.com/) This is by far my longest of the seven, although only by a few hundred words. It's inspired by a power outage that happened in Vancouver last year that plunged entire portions of the city and those surrounding it into darkness for one to three days, depending on area. Driving around in search of anywhere that had food, or even just power, everything was incredibly quiet for the middle of the day. I think Dave would enjoy it.


End file.
